


now macaulay me down to sleep

by bored_spiders



Category: Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: Deconstruction, Literary Theory, Metafiction, Other
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-24
Updated: 2016-01-24
Packaged: 2018-05-16 00:58:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,900
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5807095
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bored_spiders/pseuds/bored_spiders
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The universe is in danger, and Macaulay Culkin—an ordinary highschooler—is the only one who can save it!</p>
<p>a STAR WARS - THE FORCE AWAKENS fanfiction</p>
            </blockquote>





	now macaulay me down to sleep

“macaulay culkin,” the guidance counselor said. “i sense that your path will not be easy.”

“yeah?” macaulay culkin said. “how so?”

the counselor closed his eyes. “i see…a storm. fire. darkness.”

“okay,” macaulay culkin said. stupid mandatory advising session. on a friday, no less.

the counselor’s hands began to tremble. “i see…temptation. betrayal. heartbreak.”

macaulay culkin nodded.

“and torment!” the counselor said, opening his eyes, bloodshot and pleading. “a great and terrible torment! struggle! horror! suffering! **_pain!”_**

“dang,” macaulay culkin said.

“AAAAAAAAAAA aaaaaaaaaa AAAAAAAAAA aaaaaaaaaa AAAAAAAAA!” the counselor said/screamed.

“do you, uh,” macaulay culkin said, “is this a medical thing. should i call an ambulance.”

“oh God,” the counselor said, “…no, i deceive myself. for the existence of such cruelty is proof that God no longer answers our prayers.”

the counselor wept.

macaulay waited. he was a cool cat, although actually a normal-temperature human. some people called him “mac culky”, or at least, they could, if they wanted to: he wouldn’t object. mac put his feet up on the counselor’s desk. then he felt guilty and moved them down. then he changed his mind again. he put one foot on the desk. this, he felt, was the appropriate level of rebellion.

“do you have any advice about college?” macaulay culkin said.

“i need to call my ex-wife. i need to see my son,” the counselor said.

“so,” macaulay culkin said, “that’s a no.”

slowly, the counselor straightened. he blew a glob of yellow mucous into a Kleenex. the counselor was a short man, and inside of him was another short man, but inside of that man, he reminded himself, was a third man, Jørgen, who was Norwegian. now, the counselor tried to tap into that enterprising european spirit. he had a master’s in education, for christ’s sake. a GED in divination. he wasn’t going throw a fit over the the child star of _The Pagemaster._ he was going to do his job.

“i would, ah. ahem. i would take a foreign language in the spring,” the counselor said.

“okay,” macaulay culkin said.

“and don’t forget, colleges do look at your extracurriculars. i advise students to keep up at least two: one athletic, one creative.”

“i joined the track team recently,” macaulay said.

“excellent,” the counselor said. “and your grades are holding up?”

“straight A’s,” macaulay said.

“well then,” the counselor said. “i think your academics are progressing nicely. we’ll meet again in the spring. could you tell the student outside to come in when she’s ready?”

“sure thing,” macaulay culkin said. “take care, sir.”

“likewise, macaulay,” the counselor said, not quite meeting his eyes.

***

“h-hi! how did it go?” young science girl said, smiling.

macaulay culkin closed the door to the counselor’s office. he shrugged. “it was fine. he went off about extracurriculars. you know.”

“ha ha,” young science girl said, “t-that’s funny!”

“yeah, thanks.”

macaulay culkin was thinking about the word **_“pain!”_** , stylized as such, but the young science girl had no idea about his inner angst. she was excited: after a year of Big Data collection, million-dollar research, password-protected fanfiction, and personalized dating sims—was this the day macaulay culkin would finally notice her?

“also,” young science girl said, “i-i got you a p-present!”

“really?” macaulay culkin said. “it’s not my birthday or anything.”

“i k-know, but…”

the young science girl didn’t know why she was stuttering, nor how she had stuttered the silent k in “know.” the young science girl was smart, so smart that she was wearing a lab coat and glasses. when she was six, she had taken an IQ test, but instead of a number the test just said ??? because her IQ was too high. when she was eight, she had invented astrochemistry, which was like regular chemistry but could only be done in space. when she was ten, she programmed a robot that could love but would never hate. and at the 8th grade school science fair, she had announced that she had solved math. mathematicians from around the world flew in and checked her proofs. the proofs were flawless. so the U.S. announced an end to the War on Math, and the mathematicians went home and became jazz musicians, and the young science girl received all 360 possible degrees and became classified as a natural resource. but despite all these achievements, she was nervous about a boy. the young science girl chided herself: truly, love was the greatest puzzle of all.

“here y-you go,” the young science girl, whose name was emma watson & crick, said.

emma w&c handed macaulay culkin a smooth grey orb, about the size of a cue ball.

“what does it do?” macaulay culkin said.

emma smiled. “it’s m-my latest invention.”

“is it, like,” macaulay culkin said, “a social media thing?”

emma wrinkled her tiny nose in frustration. “of c-course not!” she said. “let me see it? oh, it’s not connected to wi-fi. t-try it now.”

macaulay culkin wondered what the point of this orb was.

_my fingers are shrinking! shrinking! shrink—_

_—and welcome to ThoughtOrb. ThoughtOrb crowdsources your thoughts so you can get helpful responses from—_

_—the tiny men who live inside my ear canal! that’s why i need to see a xenotolaryngologist, and there’s only one man who—_

_—can satisfy my complex sexual urges. i am aroused by cabs, but not taxis; paste, but not glue; Debra, but—_

— _are they really so different? i’ve dedicated my life to the fight against whole milk, but—_

macaulay culkin had never had someone else think into his brain.

— _to understand philosophy, one must start with the Greeks. Aristotle—_

_—once told me the world is gonna roll me, i ain’t the—_

_—junior member of the ThoughtOrb Help Team. many people find ThoughtOrb disconcerting at first, but—_

_—you need some fat in your diet! but is milk fat—_

_—a plague upon mankind! a plague of rodents! a plague of leeches! a plague of bitter fish!_

macaulay culkin did not like having other people think into his brain.

_—your thoughts are matched with the thoughts of similar users, who—_

_—don’t believe in water. so what do they drink? we need to find out, because—_

_—the wedding is cancelled! and you can tell the Hivemind that—_

_—the tiny men have invented tiny bulldozers, and are—_

_—UNABLE TO SOLVE THE INTRACTABLE PROBLEM OF MILK!_

“i’m going to give this back to you,” macaulay culkin said, “before this brings me all the way to schizophrenia.”

“s-sorry,” emma said. “i didn’t mean—”

“no, it’s cool. i’m glad you showed it to me. it’s just a bit much. my aunt had some mental health problems—which, i mean, it was the 60s, so—”

“here, i-i’ll give you a different present!”

“that’s not—”

“have this archipelago! it’s the Lesser Antilles! i already have the Greater Antilles, so—”

“i’m not much of a beach person—”

“do you want this robot pencil sharpener?”

“who even uses pencils any more? i guess for scantrons—”

“I CAN ONLY LOVE, NEVER HATE.”

“it’s sentient!”

“i really don’t—”

“I CANNOT HATE, BUT MY LIFE IS SUFFERING NONETHELESS.”

“emma, i meant to tell you: the guidance counselor is ready to see you.”

“i’m s-sorry,” emma said. “i messed up.”

“i don’t think you did,” macaulay culkin said kindly. “keep working on your inventions! i think a lot of people will really like them.”

“t-thanks,” emma said. “i promise, even if those silly things weren’t so g-great, one day soon i’m going to make something that will **_irreversibly alter the nature of mankind’s existence._** ”

“totally!” macaulay culkin said. it’s good to see women in STEM fields, he thought. “take care, emma.”

“b-bye!” emma said.

***

what a strange girl, macaulay culkin thought, as he wandered down the hall. “irreversibly alter the nature of mankind’s existence”—what had she meant by that? and when the counselor had mentioned “a great and terrible torment?”—what had he meant by that? and when the titular character of _Citizen Kane_ had said _“Rosebud”_ —what had he meant by that? i mean, everyone knew that he was referencing his sled, but what did the sled represent? macaulay was usually confident in his understanding of the universe, but sometimes he wondered. sometimes he wondered indeed.

mac was so lost in thought that he bumped into the baddest girl in school!

"sorry, i—oh no,” mac said.

macaulay hadn’t spoken a single word to tharja v. since starting at Ouroboros High, and now he had spilled her jet black Gucci bag all over the floor. tharja was bad news: “bad news,” like, “sexually aggressive in a way that intimidates men,” but also “bad news,” like, “devoid of compassion and willing to hurt people for fun.” macaulay culkin raised his gaze from the fallen bag and took in her figure: black shoes, black stockings, black denim shorts, black tank-top, black jacket, black lipstick, black bangs. the only part of her attire that wasn’t black were the gold spikes on the shoulders of her jacket. the gold represented power. the spikes represented spikes.

“you're macaulay culkin,” tharja said.

macaulay culkin thought about this. “yes,” he decided.

tharia nodded. she took out an altoid tin and opened it.

“you want some seroquel?” she said.

“no thanks,” mac said.

tharja flicked one of the pills into her mouth and swallowed it. “i’m on a lot of suzy-Q right now," she said. “but don't get the wrong idea, i'm not crazy. it's purely recreational.”

“cool,” mac said. 

he meant it: drugs are cool.

“are you going to stand there?” tharja demanded. “or are you going to get down on your knees and clean up your mess?”

“i’m going to get down on my knees and clean up my mess,” macaulay culkin said.

“right answer,” tharja said.

macaulay culkin felt psychosexually distressed. this experience was definitely going to be formative—he would have to read totally different erotica. he saw himself, thirty years down the line:

“tell me akain, mister culkin: vat habened on dat fateful afdernoon?”

“i was going down the school hallway—thinking about the subjective nature of human experience, you know?—and then suddenly she bumps into me: tharja v. i spill her purse everywhere. she tells me to get down on my knees and clean it up. i comply. ever since then, i’ve been terrified of rottweilers and totally incapable of intimacy.”

“is ein textbook caze, mister culkin.”

“tell it to me straight, doc. what should i do?”

“dere is only one pozible zoluzion: diligence, zelf-zacrifice, and Catholicism.”

but before macaulay could scream (in his future nightmare), tharja crouched down and began to help. mac tried not to make eye contact, tried not to touch her possessions with more than his fingertips: a potion of charm, a dagger of fate, american spirits (tobacco), american spirits (liquor), american spirits (spirits, like ghosts) , hello kitty keychain, _1Q84_ by murakami…

mac had heard the rumors, but this was proof: tharja was a witch.

“…are you a witch?” mac said.

“maybe i am. what’s it to you?” tharja, the teenage witch, said.

“just wondering,” mac said.

“i don’t believe in labels,” tharja said, “but if you must, i prefer the term ‘dark mage’, or ‘user of dark magic.’ ”

“okay,” mac said.

“but don’t assume that my magic is evil, just because it’s ‘dark magic’,” tharja, the teenage dark mage, said.

“okay,” mac said.

“it can be evil, obviously. my #HashtagsofSorrow are some of the most reblogged on Evil Facebook, Evil Tumblr, and Instagram.”

“there’s no Evil Instagram?” mac said.

“redundant,” tharja said.

mac nodded.

“anyway, the mistress of woe she says that my curses are some of best she’s seen. i met her, actually. she’s pretty cool. i mean, she’s okay. but as i was saying, once i hexed a girl into body image issues so bad that she decided she couldn’t be happy unless she lived out the rest of her life as a marine iguana in the galapagos islands. i think she’s still there.”

“wow,” mac said.

“freshmen,” tharja cackled.

macaulay culkin was unsure how to respond.

tharja rummaged through her jacket pockets and found a ziploc. 

“xanax?” she offered.

“is it magic xanax?”

“again, redundant.”

“no thank you,” mac said.

“you’re very pale,” tharja said.

“oh. yeah. i don’t get out much. and i wear sunscreen.”

“what’s your blood type?” tharja said.

“o-negative,” mac said.

“let me bite you,” tharja said.

“what?”

“if you let me bite you, we can call it even.”

“are you—a vampire?” macaulay asked.

tharja glared. “are you saying that all _vampires_ suck blood? or that only _vampires_ can appreciate the refined taste of o-negative blood?”

“no? i didn’t mean that at all,” macaulay said.

“sounds like that’s what you meant,” tharja said.

“i guess i’m not very informed about vampires,” macaulay acknowledged.

tharja scoffed. “fine, whatever. flip your wrist.”

so he did. it hurt less than he expected.

“mmm, sweet,” tharja said. “we’re chill.”

“yeah?” macaulay culkin said.

“yeah,” tharja said, and kissed him. there was blood on his lips, blood in his mouth. it was his first kiss.

“…” macaulay said.

“you did good. you didn’t cry or anything,” tharja said.

“that’s one of my strong points,” macaulay said, “even though i’m sensitive, i can be very brave.”

“when the unholy forces i serve enslave this world and slaughter its weaklings like the squealing pigs that they are,” tharja said, standing up, “i’ll put in a good word for you.”

“thanks,” macaulay said.

“war,” tharja said. 

“peace,” macaulay said.

***

mac was feeling pretty good as he walked through the sliding glass doors of his Ouroboros High. but then:

"hi, uh, hey.”

it was his rival! 

“roast beef," macaulay said grimly.

roast beef was wearing ironic diamond bling made of unironic diamonds, mesh shorts, and a basketball jersey that said “THE CURE.” the jersey was expensive, as it had been signed by the big man himself: God. roast beef’s dad knew his agent.

“i’m uh a bit surprised you'd show your face after i, um, thrashed your weak ass last week,” roast beef said.

“you caught me off-guard and stunned me with an unusually dense turnip,” macaulay said. “you're a coward and a cheat.”

“well gosh seems to me that i used a legitimate tactical advantage," roast beef said. "but if you want to complain about it, you can uh go cry to your parents. oh, oh wait. they're dead.”

“my parents are missing,” macaulay shot back, “and you’re one to talk about crying, given that you have clinical depression!”

roast beef looked hurt.

“i’m sorry, man,” macaulay said.

“it's okay,” roast beef said. he was a humanoid cat, by the way. his fur was grey. “i know you didn’t mean no harm.”

macaulay and roast beef stood awkwardly.

“i’ve, actually, uh, been seeing someone, lately. getting professional help.”

“yeah?” macaulay said. “how’s that going?”

“it’s okay,” roast beef said, but more monotone, this time. “i, uh. i don’t know. sometimes when i try to improve myself, i’m, uh, just reminded of all the ways that i’m a failure. and then i feel really hopeless.”

“you’re not hopeless, roast beef,” macaulay said. “you have a lot of talent.”

“yeah?” roast beef said. “like what?”

“you’re good at weightlifting! you’re a great lifter!” macaulay said.

“i hate it,” roast beef said.

“you hate it?”

“i hate myself. so i hate the fact that i’m good at it.”

“you’re a reader. you’ve read a lot of books.”

“i can’t read anymore. i get, like, a hundred pages in and then i quit.” roast beef scratched behind his right ear. “i used to like books about, uh, suicide. but now words fill me with nausea.”

macaulay culkin wasn’t sure what to say.

“sometimes, i feel too sad to cry,” roast beef said. “it’s like, even my tear ducts have given up hope of making a difference.”

macaulay opened his mouth and closed it several times.

“sorry for being a downer,” roast beef said. “sorry.”

“it’s okay,” macaulay said.

“it’s okay i guess,” roast beef said, slightly more determined. “it’s, uh, it is okay that i have depression—”

roast beef began a flying roundhouse kick!

“—because I'm going to make a depression _in your face!”_

macaulay culkin barely managed to block; even so, the impact sent him skidding backwards, and then roast beef was on top of him. punch for punch, hit for hit, Uno for Uno, tic-tac for tac-toe—the two of them were evenly matched, like friends, like brothers, like lovers, but not all three, which would be weird. a crowd of middle-schoolers gathered to watch.

“such a barbaric display!” one said.

“indeed, but by watching, do we not reveal ourselves as the true barbarians?” another said.

“mmm, quite,” the first said. “perhaps we, the audience, are the real monsters.”

“no, the audience is the name of the doctor,” a third child said. “you’re thinking of the audience’s monster.”

“ah, right,” the first child said.

macaulay culkin couldn’t listen to the eggheads—he was too busy getting kicked through the sign that said OUROBOROS HIGH - HOME OF THE ETERNAL CYCLE OF DEATH AND RENEWAL. actually, for such a small school, the Eternal Cycles of Death and Renewal were a surprisingly successful team. every year, they blew the first dozen games, then discovered a wealth of talent in their troubled rookies, enabling a miraculous streak that won them the pennant, and, more importantly, taught them the value of friendship. the team’s chant was:

LIFE  
DEATH  
ORIGINAL SIN  
PERCEPTION IS ARBITRARY  
BUT WE’D RATHER WIN!

none of these things mattered to macaulay culkin, flat on his back and wracked with pain. not right now.

“gosh,” roast beef said, “i uh don’t think i’ve ever bullied someone successfully before.”

“nice going, beef,” macaulay culkin said. he tried to rise, but couldn’t. “this might be a real breakthrough.”

“i guess…give me your lunch money?” roast beef said.

“why do you want my lunch money?” macaulay said. “aren’t you worth, like, a billion dollars?”

“uh i guess,” roast beef said. “but it’s the principle of the thing, i feel. my dad made his first million beating up middle-schoolers. i’ve made two dollars and seventeen cents. he thinks i’m a wuss.”

“it’s not your fault,” macaulay said, grimacing. “the economy. wall street.”

“glass-steagall,” roast beef said.

“yeah,” macaulay said.

“look dogg i need the money,” roast beef said. “i’ll pay you back. and i’ll give you one of my sad poems. it’s about an elephant. the elephant has diabetes and it never learns to read.”

“that sounds sad,” macaulay culkin said.

“it is,” roast beef said.

macaulay could see the crowd that had gathered. he could see tharja, amused, sending a hex message from her phone. he could see emma, nervous, calling elon musk to tell him that she had copyrighted his organs. and he could see Juan Pablo, and Thor, and Yung Grandma, and Panda Express, and Timmy the Walrus, and Thirty-Seven, and Mr. Thank You, and Xavros, The Destroyer, and Scarf-Lady, and his dear, dear friend, Pogo.

he couldn’t let them down.

“i’m sorry, roast beef,” macaulay said. “do your worst.”

roast beef raised his hand to deliver the finishing blow.

“je-sus christ, what the fuck is goin’ on here?" joe pesci said.

***

“i’m not fuckin’—i’m not fuckin’ mad, mac. i’m just fuckin’ disappointed.”

“it wasn’t my fault,” macaulay said. “he came at me!”

“don’t give me that shit. don’t give me that shit!” joe pesci said, one hand on the wheel of his sketchy black limousine. “i’ve seen you talk to people. you got charisma. if you didn’t want to fight him, you wouldn’t have fought him, and you wouldn’t have tape across your nose like jack fuckin’ nicholson in _Chinatown_.”

“i’m the victim,” macaulay protested.  
  
“hi, _the victim_ ,” joe pesci said. “i’m joe.”

macaulay and joe both laughed.

“thanks for picking me up from school,” macaulay said. “you’re a funny guy, joe.”

“funny? funny how? like, i amuse you?” joe said.

“pretty much, yes,” macaulay said.

“kids these days,” joe grumbled. “no respect for the classics.”

joe had been trying to reference _Goodfellas_ , the 1990 gangster film for which he had won Best Supporting Actor. it had been the crowning moment of joe’s career, and every month, he would call up martin scorcese and beg for a sequel. “we can call it _Betterfellas_ ,” he would say, “or _Badfellas_. _Meanfellas_. _Swellfellas_. look, marty, there’s a lot of options, that’s all i’m saying.” but martin scorcese was morbidly afraid of the number 2, and so never agreed to flim sequels and didn’t believe in dualism and could only be in polyamorous relationships. it was a difficult situation. but anyway, macaulay culkin hadn’t seen _Goodfellas_ , so it didn’t matter.

“uncle joe,” macaulay said, staring out the tinted window of the limousine. “what really happened to my parents?”

“whaddya mean?” joe pesci said. “they were scuba divin’ abroad, and one day—”

“uncle joe,” macaulay said. “you’ve been like a father to me, ever since we worked together in _Home Alone 2: Lost In New York_ , that christmas comedy classic _._ you’ve done so much for me, and i can never repay you. but i need to know.”

joe pesci was quiet for a while. “i hear ya, kid. i hear ya.”

macaulay culkin waited.

“your parents—” joe began. “well, i don’t want to say shit i don’t know. but i know this: your parents were part of _Le Resistance_. that’s French. it means ‘the rebellion.’ i don’t know how high up they were in _Le Resistance_ , but they were up there. and that made them some enemies.”

“what were they rebelling against?” macaulay asked.  
  
“you name it,” joe said. “fascism. swiss cheese. chartreuse. rhinoceri. minerals. portugal. you name it, they were rebellin’ against it. they were born rebels.”

“how do you…” macaulay began.

joe sighed. “i might as well tell you, kid. i’m in _Le Resistance_ too.”

macaulay nodded.

“anyway, a few years back, all of our leads started pointing towards this wacko cult: _‘Tabula Rasa’,_ aka ‘The New York Birdwatching Society.’ ever heard of ‘em?”

macaulay shook his head.

“didn’t think so. most people haven’t. but let me tell you, these fuckers run everything: the NBA, the BBC, the LAX, the SAT…they got their stubby fingers in every fuckin’ scam this half of the virgo cluster. their mission?” joe pesci drummed his fingers on the wheel. “peace, detachment, and an end to human suffering. and they’ll do _anything_ in order to achieve that goal.”

“when you were twelve,” pesci continued, “we got a hint about the head honcho of these fellas, a guy named _‘el cero_ ’. that’s spanish. means ‘the leader.’ and one day…” joe’s voice grew heavy. “your parents flew out to a folk concert in williamsburg to follow a lead. they didn’t come back.”

“then they could still be alive!” macaulay said. “joe, you need to—”

“calm your fuckin’ tits, kid,” joe said. “there ain’t no way your parents are alive.”

“how do you know?” macaulay shouted.

“this guy— _el cero_ —he is merciless _._ ” joe shuddered. “you don’t want to go pokin’ around that way.”

“if there’s even the slightest chance…” macaulay said, staring out the window.

“there ain’t,” joe said. “damn it, i shouldn’ta told you all this already.”

they drove in silence.

“uncle joe,” macaulay said.

“i know,” joe said.

“huh?” mac said.

“i can’t stop you. you’re just like your mother. what a dame. legs like a table, brain like a startup. ah, but with your father’s heart. i guess he was good for somethin’.”

“you mean—” mac said.

“tell you what: you’ve got the weekend off, right? stedda taking you home, i’ll take you to the current hideout of _Le Resistance_. we’ll get you up to speed on everything we know.”

macaulay culkin hugged joe pesci. “thanks, joe.”

“ahh, fuggedaboutit,” joe said.

***

as joe and macaulay pushed open the weighty doors of the hotel lobby, a cool desert wind blew in behind them. shimmering candles lit the room, their light reflecting off the aged mirrors affixed to the ceiling. in the courtyard outside, a mission bell tolled.

“such a lovely place,” macaulay culkin said.

on the wall, a portrait of steve buscemi, the hotel’s owner, stared down: gentle, wise, reassuring.

“such a lovely face,” macaulay culkin said.

joe came back over from the reception desk. “yeah, the hotel’s all right,” he said, “but it’s the people that make a place valuable. never forget that.”

“sorry, didn’t catch that,” mac said. “was it important father-figure advice?”

“nah, not really,” joe said. “follow me.”

macaulay followed joe into a dining-and-bar room adjoining the lobby. the restaurant was far from glamorous: the only thing on the menu was eggplant parmesan, an item that, by the looks of it, contained neither eggplant nor parmesan.

“boys,” joe pesci said, “i want ya to meet my nephew, macaulay culkin.”

“greetings, _amigo_ ,” a mannequin said.

“this is the ghost of che guevara,” joe pesci said, “cursed to inhabit an urban outfitters mannequin wearing a che guevara t-shirt.”

“are you sure we can trust him?” another man said. “he looks…young.”

“he’s fine. that’s benedict arnold, the famous traitor,” joe said, “who’s on our side, now.”

“on your side…” benedict arnold muttered suspiciously.

“hello, macaulay,” an obviously hawaiian man said. “it’s very nice to meet you. i have no doubt that you will be an invaluable asset for _Le Resistance_.”

“this is barack obama,” joe pesci said. “he’s the president.”

“even the president is a rebel?” macaulay exclaimed.

“in my opinion, the president should be every bit as rebellious as the people he serves. politics—well, it’s complicated, macaulay,” barack obama said. “we’ve got quite a bit to teach you.”

“and this is mute runner,” joe pesci said, “he’s sworn a Vow of Silence and a Vow of Fast Running. if we’re discovered, he will run away as quickly as possible, and if captured, he will never give up our secrets. he’s also immune to ice attacks. i don’t know what’s up with that.”

mute runner did something with his hands.

“that’s sign language,” joe pesci said. “no one here understands it, but i think that one is ‘prostate.’ ”

“how fast is he?” macaulay asked.

“eight minute mile,” joe pesci said.

“wow,” macaulay said, “that’s fast.”

“not that we’re going to be attacked any time soon, _esé,_ ” che guevara said. 

“glad you’re so fucking confident, mannequin che,” joe pesci said, “because the pick-up of this here flash drive went about as smooth as a sandpaper loofah.”

joe dangled a flash drive that had been linked to a thin black cord.

“meaning what?” benedict arnold said, adjusting his wig.

“what the fuck do you mean, ‘meaning what’?” joe pesci said. “meaning that when i met our informant in the opera box, a coupla _el cero’s_ goons were waitin’. meaning that our informant’s dead. and meaning that—” joe glared. “we may have a fuckin’ rat in our midst.”

“as long as we take appropriate precautions, i believe that we will persevere, and, with luck, triumph,” barack obama said, sipping his pink champagne.

mute runner made several signs with his hands.

“yeah, yeah, i know, ol’ joe pesci being paranoid as usual,” joe pesci said. “well anyway, mac, do you want some eggplant parmesan?”

“i can’t tell,” mac said, “but it looks like the eggplant parmesan is actually…spaghetti.”

“it’s a map-territory thing,” benedict arnold agreed.

“all right, well,” joe said, looking somewhat put out.

“i think i’m going to pass out early,” macaulay said. his nose hurt. he needed a fresh band-aid for his wrist. “thank you all for hosting me.”

“such a lovely place, isn’t it?” benedict arnold said.

“shut up,” joe pesci said. “i’ll walk you to your room, mac.”

***

joe stopped macaulay outside room 18-A.

“listen—i want you to have this.”

joe pesci pressed a flash drive into mac’s hand.

“what? why?”

“i just, i don’t know. i have a bad feeling, you know? i get queasy. i don’t know what’s on this flash drive, but someone was willin’ to die to get it to us. and if something goes wrong, they’ll be gunnin’ for me. so i’m givin’ you the real deal. if someone takes me out,” joe said, “they’ll get this identical flash drive, which is filled to the brim with 1970s softcore pornography.”

“joe,” macaulay said.

“don’t. i’m probably just being a crazy fucker. nothing will go wrong. i just—i never understood, when i was your age, but there are things that are worth dying for.”

macaulay was silent.

“good night, mac,” joe pesci said.

***

macaulay culkin had the same dream he always had—well, not exactly. in this particular dream, mac came with david foster wallace to a reading of his new book, _Hot Or Not?_ and they got pulled over, and DFW got in a huge argument with the cop while trying get out of his speeding ticket. then mac saw _Goldfish IV_ in theaters, the fourth tie-in movie to the snack franchise, starring mindy kaling as the spunky female lead. then mac had sex with a blonde lady, which was cool except both of them were wearing bomb collars, so if they didn’t do it properly, they’d explode. then mac showed up naked and unprepared to the first day of ninja school. and he was eaten by grizzly bears, and he came back to life, and he was eaten again, because he wasn’t himself, he was far away, playing a videogame, moving around a body, fucking up the controls.

the dream nouns changed, but the feeling remained the same: mac had made some mistake, long ago, and since he didn’t know what the mistake was, he continued to make it. when mac woke, at 1:07 am, he tried to decode this particular dream. DFW represented the over-rational consciousness of the modern age. the blonde represented consumerism. the bears represented bears.

macaulay culkin wondered why his unconscious spat up such bizarre, trope-obsessed, copyright-infringing material. it was inevitable, he supposed. he spent his life consuming pop culture, so that was the language he spoke, and he didn’t know how to understand the world without words.

mac tossed and turned. at 1:58 am, he fell back asleep. this time, he did not dream.

then he woke up again.

***

someone was at the door. macaulay wasn’t sure how he knew this, but he did. 

the red numerals of his alarm clock said 3:24 am—not just the witching hour, but the witching minute. who would come knocking now?

...

it was lasers!

the hotel’s front door exploded. macaulay culkin threw on pajama pants and an undershirt and dashed to the lobby, where he found:

\- twenty post-nazis, blaster rifles at the ready. unlike WWII nazis, these fourth-reich nazis were skeptical of the aryan narrative. indeed, they were inclusive to people of all races, religions, and sexual orientations. they didn’t wear uniforms or swastikas either—since it was casual friday, most of them were wearing hawaiian shirts and khakis. actually, they had little in common with nazis, other than being generally “bad dudes”, but they identified with nazism, and in the end, they argued, that’s what counts.  
\- the ghosts of the 1927 yankees. first four batters: earle combs, mark koenig, babe ruth, and lou gehrig—the madman behind lou gehrig’s disease. in life, they were a murderer’s row. in death: murderers.  
\- dr. sibyll berkowitz, wellness expert.  
\- a huge man in the most overdesigned plate armor macaulay culkin had ever seen. it had pauldrons carved to look like dragon skulls. it had ridges and zippers that didn’t do anything. it had a cape—possibly two capes?—and a sash. on one metal arm, someone had carved a pentagram; on the other, I <3 MOM. the man was wearing a black skull-like mask with thick horns slanting fowards. the mask’s mouth-slit was an upwards parabola, its eyes asymmetric: one a comma, the other a period.

“Hi, Macaulay!” the man said, waving. “I’m Doug Snodgrass, PR guy for _Tabula Rasa_ : ‘A Blank Slate - A Better Future’. Nice to meet you ;)”

“fucking hell, mac,” joe pesci said, arriving behind macaulay, che and benedict close behind. “you need to get out of here. now.”

“I’m afraid it’s too late for that, Joe,” Snodgrass said. “We have you surrounded ;)”

joe pesci checked the secret weaponry hidden inside his suit jacket.

“how did you find us?” pesci said, loudly.

“Good question!” Snodgrass said. “Matthew, why don’t you come out and say hi? ;)”

from between babe ruth and berkowitz, mute runner stepped forward.

“TRAITOR,” benedict arnold screamed.

“yeah, yeah, yeah,” mute runner said. “man, i like blabbering. i like chatting. i like small talk. do you know how much sign language limits your dating opportunities? i don’t know why i agreed to this job in the first place.” mute runner yawned. “you know, benedict, i actually thought you were a traitor.”

“no, my secret is that i’m benedict cumberbatch, method-acting for my upcoming role as benedict arnold in _Traitor For Love,_ starring james franco as bisexual george washington,” the acclaimed british actor said.

“oh!” sibyll berkowitz said. “i’m excited for that one!”

“there’s definitely some oscar buzz,” benedict cumberbuns confirmed.

“i took choir for seven goddamn years,” mute runner continued, “seven years, wasted. and why did you call me mute runner? it’s my job, not who i am! couldn’t you call me ‘matthew’? ‘matthew, matthew, matthew!’ is that so fucking hard? why does no one here speak ASL?”

“you’re dead, mute runner,” pesci snarled.

“Actually, Matthew, there is a slight problem,” Snodgrass said. “I really appreciate that you tipped us off, but at _Tabula Rasa_ , we place a lot of emphasis on synergy. On being a team player. And traitors, by definition, aren’t team players ;)”

“what do you mean?” mute runner said.

“I mean…you’re fired,” Snodgrass said. “Thompson? Jenkins? Take him ;)”

two hawaiian-shirt nazis threw mute runner to the ground, gagged his mouth, and bound his hands.

“Good work, team!” Snodgrass said. “Nakamura? You’ve got the gasoline? Great. Does anyone here smoke? ;)”

“i do, sir.”

“Just so you know, Erickson, there are better ways of dealing with stress. I highly recommend that you talk to Sibyll. Did you know that she’s a trained massage therapist, as well as a psychotherapist? Two for one! But in the meantime, go with Jenkins, Thompson, and Nakamura. Take this guy to the restaurant and do the whole gasoline-immolation thing,” Snodgrass said. “You know what I’m talking about ;)”

and so matthew, the mute runner, was dragged away. if only he had been immune to fire attacks, he might have lived, but alas! being immune to ice attacks was not helpful at all.

“mac,” joe pesci whispered. “obama has a scroll of teleportation with him in room 13-B.”

“obama is a wizard?” macaulay whispered.

“paladin, but he took some cross-class ranks. barry’s a good fella. i trained him, ya know. back in the day. back in the 80s. when innocence was legal. when love was free.”

“you did?”

“doesn’t matter.” joe gritted his teeth. “when i say RUN, you have to run to room 13-B as fast as you possibly can.”

“i’m not going to—”

“Sorry for the delay ;)” Snodgrass said. “Listen, guys. I’m going to be nice and give you the opportunity to surrender. I can’t promise we won’t kill you—we are plotting to destroy the universe—but you’ll definitely live longer. Days? Months? Years? Who’s to say?”

“ _besarme el culo, hijo de puta,_ ” mannequin che said, spanish for “i believe strongly in anti-consumerism and the DIY aesthetic.” he pulled out his .44 sex pistol and fired:

WHAM  
BAM  
THANK  
YOU  
BLAM!

the bullets stopped in mid-air, like a bad joke on a windy day. they dropped to the floor.

“Nope ;)” Snodgrass said. 

Snodgrass extended his right arm and closed his fist. the gun’s snout bent backwards. the handle twisted. the chambers collapsed. the gun _crunched_. Snodgrass made a hand motion. the gun, now a tiny ball of metal, flew out of che’s hand, across the room, hit the wall, and, with three seconds left on the buzzer, banked into the trash.  
  
the crowd went wild!  
  
“I have a busy schedule,” Snodgrass said. “If you want to kill me, you’ll have to make an appointment ;)”

“alright, fuckhead,” joe pesci said, drawing his vibrokatana, which, although not explicitly mentioned, had been present in every prior joe pesci scene. “let’s do this.”

“sir, should we—” a post-nazi said

“No ;)” Snodgrass said, frowning imperceptibly. “Sword.”

“as your therapist, your nutritionist, and your girlfriend, i advise—” dr. berkowitz began.

“Sword ;)” Snodgrass repeated.

“what’s the matter, snodgrass?” joe pesci said. “scared?”

mark koenig, shortstop, and earle combs, center fielder, handed Snodgrass his sword. this sword was fucking ridiculous. the handle had a snake wrapping around it. the pommel was a skull. the hilt was made to look like demonic bat wings. it had another skull, probably. and the blade—the blade had little mini-blades coming out of it, each one sharper than the last, with vorpal tips that vibrated with energy as they cut through the oxygen molecules of the air.

“No ;)” Doug Snodgrass, public relations manager, said.  


 joe pesci and Doug Snodgrass circled each other in the hotel lobby.

“i was wrong to doubt you,” benedict cumbercookies told mac culky. “you’re a good man, macaulay. stay brave, and stay strong.”

“ _estoy de acuerdo_ ,” che guevara said, which everyone understood as: “destroy urban outfitters. seriously, fuck that company. you know the guy that runs it is a huge neocon, right? same thing with the guy who owns gawker media. they are branding you and selling you that brand. don’t be a fucking sheep.”

“couldn't have put it better,” benedict cumberpastries, best known for the hit BBC series _Sherlock,_ said.

post-nazi jenkins stepped out of the restaurant. “sir, we finished burning the traitor, and—”

“Busy ;)” Snodgrass said.

“okay, well, just so you know, the building IS on fire,” post-nazi jenkins said.

“Fine ;)”

“sir, i know you value employee feedback, so i just want to point out that, even though it was a really intimidating stunt, i don’t think we should have violated fire safety like that, sir.”

Snodgrass whirled his sword and divided post-nazi jenkins along the sagittal plane.

“Downsizing ;)” he said, grinning.

joe pesci’s resting mafia face didn’t change. the lobby’s candles reflected off the mirrors, glinted off the blades. macaulay culkin’s grip tightened around the flash drive in his pocket. 

and at that moment, post-nazi thompson’s cell phone went off:

_Last thing I remember, I was_  
_Running for the door_  
_I had to find the passage back_  
_To the place I was before_  
_"Relax," said the night man,_  
_"We are programmed to receive._  
_You can check-out any time you like,_  
_But you can never leave!”  
__[Guitar solo]_  

everyone stared.

**“** i like it ironically,” post-nazi thompson said.

joe pesci swung low, bouncing his katana off Snodgrass’ plate greaves. he swung again, carving a groove along Snodgrass breastplate. Snodgrass blocked the next blow and swung overhand, missing pesci but obliterating the reception desk and moving their tectonic plate a few inches to the south. pesci glanced a blow off Snodgrass’ shoulder. Snodgrass grunted, raised his foot, and kicked him into the bar.

joe pesci grabbed a glass of champagne and downed it.

“your gimmicks are fuckin’ stupid,” joe pesci said.

Snodgrass charged at pesci and swung wide; pesci ducked, ran behind Snodgrass, and struck a blow against his upper back. Snodgrass teetered forward, caught himself.

“I have _The Power of Now_ ,” Snodgrass said. “I have _The Secret_. I have won friends. I have influenced people. And my armor—my armor is as hard as my will.”

Snodgrass began charging a power attack!

“You will not pierce it ;)” Snodgrass said.

Snodgrass smashed pesci’s chest with the pommel of his sword. joe pesci parried the next attack, but he was tiring, it was obvious.

“;)” Snodgrass said.

Snodgrass backhanded pesci, then swung his sword overhead, shattering a mirror. shards of glass rained down. the post-nazis took cover. dr. berkowitz opened an umbrella. pesci was bleeding. flames were moving from the restaurant into the lobby. 

Snodgrass smashed another mirror.

“You ;)” Snodgrass said, swinging.

“Don’t ;)” Snodgrass said, stabbing.

“Get ;)” Snodgrass said, slicing off joe pesci’s right ring and pinky fingers.

“With ;)” Snodgrass said, knocking the vibrokatana to the floor.

“Whom ;)” Snodgrass said, grabbing joe pesci by his collar.

“You’re ;)” Snodgrass said, lifting him off the floor, one-handed.

“Dealing ;)” Snodgrass said, choking him.

joe pesci gurgled.

“ _El cero_ will be pleased to hear of your demise ;)” Snodgrass said.

“i’m…fuckin’…pleased…too,” joe pesci said, reaching into his jacket.

Snodgrass paused.

“you got me right next to your fucking face, and i’m holdin’ a grenade,” joe pesci said.

“:(” Snodgrass said.

“MACAULAY, RUN!” joe pesci said. 

macaulay ran. he felt the explosion rock the hotel lobby. he felt the intense, localized heat of the lasers zooming past him. he felt his lungs go raw from exertion. he felt the cool metal handle of the door to 13-B. he felt the soft hands of barack obama. he felt the overcaffeinated trembling that precedes teleportation. he heard screams. but he didn’t cry. not until the spell finished, and he opened his eyes, and saw the streets of London, and it was raining, storming, and macaulay thought back to his guidance counselor’s prediction, not that long ago, and he thought of the life he’d had, and the life that could have been.

_end of chapter one_


End file.
